


When the Night is Over

by RabbitsBones



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M, S8E2 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-24 03:08:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18562678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RabbitsBones/pseuds/RabbitsBones
Summary: A quick oneshot following an indulgent line of thought about Tormund and Jon spending the night before the battle against the Night King together.





	When the Night is Over

**Author's Note:**

> Posting this in a rush but-  
> Named after the Lord Huron song When the Night is Over
> 
> “By the stars above, I know we were in love  
> I have only ’til the night is over.”

Jon is hot to the touch. He always has been, from the moment he was born under the southern sun to his days on the wall. Handy, given that he’d only ever known the North and now winter had finally begun to lay claim to the land once more. In the night sweat beads on the nape of his neck, trickling down into the furs he sleeps with, each passing provides more proof that he’d truly been there. 

Winterfell had always been his home, but-

Tormund is cool against his finger tips. Skin like ice, nose ruddy and cheeks flushed from exertion. It’s a sign that he’s alive, still pushing through each day, fighting for a man who he would have once killed without hesitation. He’s not the only one though, when their soldiers are a myriad of collective forces, bastards and broken toys. 

Still, when Jon’s fingers thread into fire touched hair he thinks of what it would be like to leave for somewhere warmer. Not forever, just a time. The ability to experience something new, a place where his furs would be suffocating instead of pleasant. He craves heat like it’s his only wish as a dying man- and it is. Death has touched him, has lingered on his mind bitterly, and tainted him for this world. 

The only solace he finds is in the hands of the other man. Palms rough, calloused from work, his gaze crystal as it settles on the brunette. Kind of the North they’d called him, after his brother- his cousin, no, his brother- was betrayed. If only the red woman had been there, able to raise him from the dead, but of course that couldn’t be the way of things. Robb had been a leader, bred and groomed for it, if he were here now Jon could rest easy whether that be here or in the afterlife. 

For now thoughts linger, and their time is hurried. Before dawn, Tormund had said, with the same mouth that brushed along the crook of Jon’s neck. His throat felt thick, tongue heavy as he tried to think of anything worthwhile to say. They had done everything they could to prepare. Those who were not fighters would stay in the crypts, but regardless of position there was no helping the intuition that they were simply lambs to the slaughter. 

How many people would they lose when the night is over? 

The kiss is wet, as are his cheeks, but if the wildling has noticed he doesn’t say as much. There’s no need for words, but the crave for intimacy is all consuming and burns everything it touches in its’ wake. He breathes in deep, and layers are shed with a quick disregard. They haven’t much time, and truly even this indulgence is far too much, but they are selfish men. Who would blame them, in this moment, though? For taking what they can, as quickly as they can, while they’re still able. 

Death marches on the horizon and Jon’s hand grips his lover’s jaw like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His touch is rough and so far from the tenderness he craves. By the old gods and the new he would have loved to take his time, to map out every trace of the other man, but not even the Mother is so merciful as to allow it. Instead they rush, as fools are known to do, until enough clothing has been shed for them join. 

Imagine the horn blowing when he has two fingers stretching him in desperate, sharp motions. Tormund’s breath is hot against his neck, each inhale a gasp and every exhale a prayer. Just a little bit longer, he prays, when the oil has done its job and there is more pleasure then pain. He wants to lose himself, now, to let go of the control that’s been vital for so long. 

He has never felt as free as he did among the wildlings, but this is a close second. 

There is only them, now, with every other thought chased far away. For this moment only Jon can forget the details of how they got here. One of the free folk in his bed, the Kingslayer occupying the same space as the youngest daughter of his previous liege. Sansa, perhaps still with Theon as they’d been taking a basic comfort in each others’ company at dinner when he’d last seen them. 

Bran… Gods, Bran and everything that’s happened to him, everyone who’s wronged him. Ned Starks bones, his mother, down in the cellar- it begs to present itself in his mind’s eye but he pushes it all down. He will not spend the last few hours of his life thinking about how wrong things went, about how he was suppose to die a quiet and honorable death at the wall (and nearly had, if you call being a martyr honorable). 

Never would he have found himself in this position, but they are Northerners, they are the living, and they are happy to take what they can get and count their blessings. If what he can scrounge up in the end of the world is a lover, a cause worth fighting for, and just a chance at protecting his only living brother and sisters then he’ll take it. 

He’ll thank every nip of teeth on his flesh and every bruise the rough grip on his hips will allow him, rejoice in the voice in his ear that murmurs filthy things. 

Crow, Tormund had called him when they did not yet know each other. 

Pretty Crow, he allowed himself to acknowledge once Jon had proven himself to some extent. 

My Little Crow, he laughed, arms wrapping around the brunette so tight he thought his head might pop off. 

Jon laughed too, so delighted, so guilty for what it must have been like for others to think him dead not once, but twice. They’ve come this far, and in as an intrusive manner as one might think, he can’t help but wonder what it would be like traveling to the ends of the world with this man. No crowns, no walls, no marching dead men. Just the two of them, and what they can create together. 

It’s a fantasy, however, same as any other.

When the Night King comes there’ll be no warmth, no misconceptions. There is no winning, only survival. When all is said and done, if they are not all soldiers in a new army, then they will be burying friends, family, lovers.

No one is truly safe, but as quickly as it builds up then everything is quick to fall. They collapse into the bed together, fingers tangled and breathing quick. 

Tonight, they make their last stand at Winterfell, but for now they sneak in as many sweet words as they can manage.


End file.
